On Million Dollar Baby

 

I can't ever remember being so emotionally affected by a movie.  Why?  What is the deep impact it has on me?  Why the reverberations?

I don't believe it is the obvious similarity between Mom and Richard's deaths and Maggie's.  I'm certain, though it is representative of an aspect of what I admire and am affected by.

When I think of Maggie I think of focus, singular desire, no distractions—nothing but One Love.  She had nothing else.  All the love of her heart she poured into boxing, training, and her coach.  She was nothing else.

She was simple, uneducated trailer-trash. . . no, she came from trash.  She wasn't, but she was poor, friendless, alone.  And she loved something passionately.  And she had Courage of the highest order.

She refused to be held back, not by her age, her history, her gender. . . her lack of a coach, or even her accident.  She lived completely on her own terms.  And she wouldn't stand for people trying to stop her.  Her dad had said, "You came into this world fightin', and you'll leave fighin'."

 

But why?  I've seen Frodo.  He was tragic.  Jesus. . . well, somehow I don't find Jesus tragic in the least.    The feeling is reminiscent of reading Stolen Lives.  I remember how I felt for Malika Oufkir.  Her characteristics and story are very similar: bravery, resilience, talent.  They diverge though because Malika was thrust into her suffering where Maggie chose at least part of her direction, she had that profound love that drove her.  Malika was driven by survival, love of family.

Yet they are both example of women of Power.  I can't offhand think of any other women like them.  I am in love with Maggie.  I didn't find her attractive physically.  But she so transcended everything physical. . . and that look in her eyes when Clint kissed her. . . she glowed, radiated. . . you could feel it.  I felt as Clint was meant to feel.  I could have spent the rest of my life serving her.  It is almost religion: I can imagine a life spent serving the divine in her form as a life aptly spent.  I can't explain it.

Why is she divine?  What is so so perfect about her?  What does she reflect in myself?  What am I staring at the I myself lack and am blind to?  I am not poor. I don't come from trailer-trash.  I have lots of friends.  I am not a woman in a waning man's-world.   More importantly, I don't have a single intense passion like boxing.

 

Let's leave that for a minute.  So she loved to box and with furious effort she excelled.  But notice now that nothing chances after the accident.  She is the same, in fact, more beautiful, more charming, more naked and radiant.  It was like. . . all of a sudden you could see her for her true self.  She never complained.  She hurt; she suffered.  And she bore it until with clarity she understood that life was now behind and not before her.  So with the same dogged determination that she attacked boxing she tackled the problem of dying when you have no physical control below the neck.  To kill oneself with the use of nothing but the head is quite a task.  Most people can't succeed with their full faculties.  But she tried.  Failed.  Then she tried and tried some more until they tranquilized her.  Anyone who has in truth seen those eyes, as I have, you then know there is no life in there.  I saw my mother's eyes just before we released her.  When I saw Maggie's drugged stare I cried.  How could anyone EVER imagine leaving such a woman with such spirit caged in her own body.  There can be no worse prison—and with the drugs even the mind is caged. 

To see her alive, if only technically was a torture.  To kill her, to free her seemed the only humanitarian act.  This isn't FICTION.  This happened with my mother.  Her brother Richard just made the same choice at the last moment, just as he had a stroke and would lose the power to control his own life.  Richard ended his life in his own way.  My mother needed us to release her.  But Maggie was all but alone—she had no one.  Can you imagine being crippled and having no one to love you?  I can't imagine the loneliness.  So coach stepped up and did what had to be done.  He acted when no one else could.

Remember One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest.  The big Indian did the same for Jack Nickelson after the lobotomy.  Same situation really:  a man with great spirit, but all life was taken from him, safe his body.  So the Indian released him as well.  Call it compassion.

 

I think (and fear) I envy Maggie as well as love her.  Her life seems to have a perfect symmetry.  She didn't need all the frills.  Remember: "Don't let them keep me until I can't her them chantin' no more."  Could have killed me......

I believe she tasted the divine.  She touched the holy.  What more can you ask of life than that??

Is this what I adore?  What I admire?  She did it.  She won.  She played her hand perfectly, like an artist.  Oh, it was a shit hand to start, but she crafted it into perfection.  She did it with heart, pure heart.  Motzart: "the secret to genius is love, love, love."  Yes, she makes the rule.

 

I have not her determination or her heart.  Remember Rudy.  Raw effort.  Why?  Because it is what is required.  But no one was watching Maggie.  She did it all alone.  This is where I fail.  She did it only for herself, and she could command such a high standard for herself.

This is in part because she knew what she wanted.  This is necessary.  But she didn't question or squabble.  Sure, I know I love travel and writing and climbing and the sort, but, no. . . I don't "really" know what I love.  The devotion she showed, for me, would require an unequivocal love that I've not known.

So perhaps I need to find it.

But do I really want to lead her life.  What about Aragorn, the living happy ever after. . . ??  Perhaps it isn't for me.  I still think it is. . . unfortunately.  Why do I want a tragic end??  An easy out?

The end isn't important but the consistency in her nature—one shouldn't change who they are because of what happens to them.  Book of Job.  If evil can change your faith then your faith missed the point, didn't it?

I've been reading a lot about tragedies and how they effect faith.  "The Swallow". . ..wow.  Good book.

Turtle Speed

Turtle Speed.

 

I am sad, and slightly irritated, to say that not a lot is going on here at the moment.  Time is oozing past.   Fiji is beautiful and I am happy to be here.  At last I am getting some work done, but it is spare and slow.

Where is my determination? My drive?  My goals even?  Once again I am in a bit of a haze.   I should simply weigh anchor and move to Kandavu—but changing spots doesn't often do the trick.  Ah, but this is different.   Kandavu is one of my goals.  I am only slightly tied here.  Herbert should reach Fiji today or tomorrow.   I could get him to meet me there—a far easier sail from his direction (he's coming from Tuvalu).

If I leave Fiji altogether and head for Vanuatu, I think I would feel like I failed for not seeing more of Fiji while I was here.

 

I shouldn't complain.  The last month has been some of the nicest, albeit hottest, weather I've ever experienced.   No rain, only enough wind to create draft through the cabin.  ARABY has lain nicely in Saweni Bay all this time.   Lautoka is cheap and interesting.  Also, when you stay in one place for an extended period you make more friends with the locals.  Some local fisherman I helped with their gps now bring me fish in the morning after a night's work.   And you start to feel comfortable in a place.

But the flipside is that I feel like time is passing me by.  What am I learning?   If I start a new book I may sit and read it uncontrollably.  Nothing can stop it.  I should get more work done, but no, when the book is sitting there unfinished I must read it.   This make me guilty, except on Sundays, and public holidays.

 

I want my drive back.  I feel like it is close.  I got ditched by a friend whom I thought would come sail with me for a bit, and that passage to Fiji caused a lot of problems that I still haven't sorted out completely, and ARABY is starting to show her true age in certain disturbing ways (deck prob.).   But really, I should be able to do a couple minor sail repairs, buy a few more stores, and I could be off. It cheers me up just thinking about it.

 

 

I keep thinking about the visions I had on passage from Tonga to New Zealand last year.  I want those things to become true.   I want to make them happen.  I am concerned that I am not on that track.  I feel weak and slow, not up to the challenge, or unable to see the right course.

It is hard when you don't have anyone else to help motivate you, to use as a sounding board, to show you when you are screwing up or to pick you up when you are down.   I am learning, this may be the toughest part of being continually alone.

 

 

 

 

Fiji as is

 

Fiji

 

I'm not sure how to explain a country which I already love, but also realize I haven't seen the best of yet.   I love Fiji.  The islands themselves are on a grand scale, lush and green, rising high in ridges and peaks above the multitude of reefs speckling the clear water and fringing the vast lagoon.   The waters are treacherous.  Three friends have hit reefs already (that I know of).   But the waters are worth the risk.   The people, every one, will say Bula, the Fijian hello, when you walk passed.  They are genuine and amicable and trustworthy.

 

But the island I am on, Viti Levu, is the main island is the most modern.   It is also more than half populated by Indians, who came over as British indentured servants working the sugarcane fields.  When they made their time they stayed rather than return home to India.  Lautoka and Suva, the two largest cities in Fiji, have most modern conveniences, and also the crime and surliness that come with them.  Othierwise, Fijians are warm and friendly and outgoing.

 

It is the outlying islands that interest me.  There, things are still slow, and traditional.   They have chiefs and villages.  To gain permission to come ashore, you are required to make sevu-sevu.  This is a ceremony between the guest and the chief of the village.  Essentially, you come ashore and ask for the chief.  When you at last find him, you introduce yourself and offer kava.   Kava is a pacific island narcotic drink, made from kava root.  It isn't alcoholic, but it makes your mouth go tingly and your legs wobbly.   Like everything else in Fiji, it is shared.

The kava is prepared in a great wooden bowl and the partakers sit around it in a circle.    One half-coconut shell is used as a cup.  It is filled and then drank in one long pull.  Then you say, Matha, which means empty.   The bowl is passed around the circle until all have had a cup.

The locals sit like this late into the evening.  Kava drinking is at once a ceremonial drink, as in the sevu-sevu, but it is also a social drink.   I've drank kava with the port security guards as I walked to town.  It is ubiquitous.  And it is drunk throughout the islands, Tonga, Samoa, Kiribati, ect.  But Fiji has some of the best.  I love it.  I like that it is shared.   The Fijians drink beer the same way: one beer poured into one small glass, emptied in one go, then refilled and passed to the next man.  Everything is shared.

      

 

 

 

 

Minding Monkey's Business

 

I left Araby in Saweni Bay—the same bay I've been in for nearly two weeks now.   I hitched down the road five kilometers to Vuda Point Marina where Monkey's Business was docked.

Laurel had recently headed back to the States for personal affairs and Jason had the boat to himself for a five days.   We decided it would be fun if I came on as crew until he had to fly out.  The idea was that we could head back to Musket Cove and go surfing and diving.

 

I generally jump at the opportunity to sail on other yachts.  It is so interesting to see how other sailors do things, see how other boats behave—the experiences serve as proverbial yard sticks, measures of myself, my boat, and my seamanship.  Of course, you can't overemphasize the allure of cold milk, cold beer, chicken, and motorsailing. 

There was no wind.  Dead still.   Good for Araby, good for motoring.  With the radio humming we passed out the marina entrance and entered Nadi Bay.   A friend had told Jason to look out for a tall mast across the bay, which we found.  I didn't care at the time, but later I found out that the yacht was Endeavor, one of only three or four J-boats left in the world, a 120 ft. sloop.  I got to see her and race against her in Antigua years ago.  Very cool to see her again, a very special yacht, beautiful.

Musket Cove was much more packed this time around.  We anchored and visited with friends who were in the anchorage.   More and more boats are turning up from NZ now and nearly every one got hammered coming across.  Another friend had to run the bucket brigade after having three bilge pumps fail.   Another changed his alternator five times!  The stories go on and on.  We all agreed that a surf expedition was needed for the morning.   Wilkes Break was about three miles off and we'd set off at dawn to beat the resort surfers who show up at nine-ish.

Of course, I don't have a surf board. . . space, money, and I've never found a good deal.   I do, however, have a wakeboard.  I figure it is a decent way to learn waves, and it fits far more easily into V-berth.

It turned out to be a light day, very small waves.  I thought, Man I didn't realize surfing was such a chill sport.   I never thought about how much time was spent just sitting on your board in the sun, chatting with your mates, waiting for waves.

It was a great time.  The weather was beautiful.   I caught a few decent waves.  Most Fiji surfing is along reefs—no nice soft sand beaches.  Coral, hard coral.   So one must be careful.  But, as I said, it was a peaceful. . . small. . . day.  The next day, however, was not.

The wind had picked up in the afternoon and had blown through the night into the next morning.   So the sunrise surf was a pass.  But by the afternoon the wind had calmed and we loaded the dinghies and headed out once again.  And Wow!   They rose like a cobra to its flute—from nothing to a rearing, teetering wall, hanging for a moment at climax before striking, rolling like thunder into the reef leaving foam and froth before retreating back to the sea. And then again. . . and again.

There were a couple of Kiwis already out there.  I was rather amped about the whole deal.   All peacefulness of yesterday forgotten, I was ready to work for some waves.  With one exception, my mates (yes, I've gone Aussie.   Curse me if you will.) were all beginner surfers.  So they were a bit reluctant.  But it is much easier to hop on a wave with a boogie board than a surf board, and safer over the reef.   So I headed to the thick of it.

And I caught a wave too.  It was a monster and I've never ridden a thing like it.   It wasn't clean really, it closed out a bit I think, but it was fast, and I had to hang on for dear life.  Luckily, and by some miracle, I was able to paddle back out with little trouble.   The wave I rode was at the end of a set I suppose.  But such luck wouldn't hold out.

Unfortunately, I was still nursing the juvenile conceptions I'd acquired the day before and the sea prides herself in healing ignorance.   As floated along with the two Kiwis I watches as the both took to paddling.  I glanced around and noticed what seemed to be a fine wave.   Perhaps they were preparing to ride it, but they were paddling more toward sea, and across the wave.  For a moment or two I pondered the wave, Should I ride it?   No, I don't think my position is very good; I'm too far in.  But then, if that is the case, I need to paddle OUT (as the two Kiwis had done moments ago).   I wouldn't catch them. . . and the wave caught me.  I tried, belatedly to dive, but it was too late. I got the full washer-machine action.  I came up short a fin in that wave.  The next wave took my other fin.  Kicking is not the same without fins and the water was strong.   But I managed to recover a fin, and seeing as these were my good fins I figured I'd bide my time until I could recover the other fin.  But a fierce set was coming in and I was pushed all the way onto the reef where I simply stood up and washed the other waves coming in, now just large foamy rollers.

It occurred as I looked for the fin that this day was not as it had been the day before.   These were fair waves and perhaps the reef was not the best place to fool around looking for a fin for which I have numerous replacements.

Without the fin paddling out was too much the chore so I paddled across into the pass and then around and back out to the dinghy (which was anchored beyond the break).   I received quite the applause for my escapades.  But of course, no one else had fared much better.

 

The lesson was: One must always keep a keen eye on the waves coming in.  Constant Vigilance—I should have known.  Just because most waves are breaking behind you doesn't mean they all will.   The lesson cost me a mighty fine fin.  But I got one fine wave out of the deal. 

With only one fin I was done for the day.  My mates weren't far behind.   The sun was drooping and the sky was preparing for the sunset.  While motoring back, the sky went red and the water was as calm as peaceful lagoons can be.   Jason stops the dinghy—It was time for dinghy surfing.

I was new to the sport.  Essentially it is wakeboarding with a surf board.   A Zodiac and a 10 hp outboard is strong enough to get you out of the water.  Getting up is the trick, but since I had wakeboarded years ago it wasn't a great hurdle.

But the reward was absolutely wondrous.  The surrounding were surreal—Everything was red, the sky, the water, they all faded into each other, nearly indistinguishable.   Just faint outlines of reef here, Malolo Island there, the masts slowly approaching beyond.

And the motion!  Absolutely incredible.   Like snowboarding in powder, powder still untouched in the brisk morning in the backcountry.  The water had no ripples, none.  And somehow I could manage the board.   Back and forth. . . back and forth across the wake. . . left to right and back again. . . effortlessly.  I wanted it to never end.   It was a perfect moment.  Something new, but with the easy feel of a matured hobby.  And the sunset went on and on and on and on.   This was Fiji.  This was sailing.  This was fine!

 

 

What else need be said beyond that?  We ate good meals.   The conversations were great.  The milk was cold and perfect (especially when I slipped in a bit of vodka and Kailua).  We motored away for another island with a resort called Beachcomber.   It was a small, small island with no anchorage to speak of.  I am not a fan of resorts, but it made for interesting people watching.   The water there was protected from fishing so the diving was excellent.

But before I knew it the week had passed and we were once again motoring back to Vuda Point Marina .  I helped Jason clean the boat.  I met his neighbor and she and her boat Ventana had spend part of last season up in Kiribati and met Herbert.   This brought a great smile to my face.  Herbert should be down here soon.   Herb—You remember Elisabeth?    I bet you do.

 

I found Araby just as I left her but with a few more neighbors than before.   The season is getting well underway now.  I need to get some work done and work on getting underway myself.

 

 

 

 

 

Fiji

Fiji rules.  The nicest people around.  Beautiful.  Cheap.  I'm in Saweni Bay, have been for a while.  Will write something nice about it.  Need to ready myself to leave for the islands.  Waiting on an email from SOMEONE.

Bumpity-bump-bump

Bumpity-bump-bump:

A Passage from New Zealand to Fiji

I set out nearly a week after my planned departure date. The weather had been northerly (no good for sailing north)—but here at last was the window. I was not the only boat to jump at the blue skies and fair winds, southeasterlies, the trades, pushing our vessels northward toward the Fijian Isles and sunny tropics. Everyone expected the window to last at least four days, then anything could happen.

But no. Weather is weather—always utterly unpredictable. I didn’t get that expected window, maybe two days, just long enough to get clear of New Zealand. Those fair sou’easterlies clocked around to the east and piped up and up and up, raising the swell with it. My course was nearly due north, so I was taking the swell directly on the beam (middle of the boat). This is anything but comfortable. ARABY, being small and sitting low in the water, she takes these waves over the topsides and they crash upon the cabintop. If I didn’t have storm shutters on my windows I should have been worried about them collapsing. And for good reason—another boat in the same depression lost a port—it simply blew in with the pressure and battering of crashing waves. That’s a bloody great hole in the side of your boat. And another boat lost a front hatch—that’s even a bigger gapping hole. So indeed it was rough. Every now and again a great wave would come out of the unseen waters and hit you like freight train, with all the sound and fury, and keep on rolling by like you weren’t even there, leaving a strange quiet behind in its wake.

These waves caused problems. They may not have busted through my windows or ports, they didn’t rip off my cabin or dinghy (thank heavens), but they did plenty else. They tore my solar panels from their lower lashings and, for one of them, this tore the wiring from its terminal. This is not good.

Most aggravating though, were the waves that broke directly on the cabin. They would hit occasionally with enough water to force through the seal of the companionway hatch and cause a miniature Victoria Falls in the galley—and on my feet—when I was trying to sleep. This is most intolerable. The fundamental element of feeling safe at sea is the separation between the wind and sea outside, and the calm and dryness inside. Water in the boat destroys the sanctity of the boat, the embryonic safety that is necessary for sanity at sea.

ARABY is not a wooden boat. Glass boats are supposed to be dry. Yet this trip was anything but dry. Waterfalls in the galley! Drips here and there. It was as if the outside world were pressurized upon me; any and every flaw, every flaw was magnified.

The most problematic was the hawse hole. A hawse hole is a hole in the bow where the anchor chain comes from the windlass through the deck into the chain locker. Essentially it is sizable hole in the foredeck of a boat which can be a very wet place. I took great care in stuffing that hole when I left—duct tape, plastic bags, rags, and all this inside a sailbag used as a windlass cover, thoroughly lashed. It was a fine job; there was a sense of pride with it. /That /will never leak, I thought. I’ve had too many problems there in the past. But as the storm raged, I’d stand amidships and watch the bow as she plunged and skewered itself through the steep swell. The windlass and hawse hole were commonly under green water, lots of it. It wasn’t a matter of spray, but firehose-like pressure and beyond. It didn’t look good.

It would be days before I would realize this. The storm started gradually enough—the wind coming around as I mentioned, slowly rising to a gale. I don’t listen to the SSB (long range radio). If I did I would have known that a low of spectacular proportions was bulldozing its way due south from Fiji. There was general panic amongst sailors. All boats were running for the hills. A friend was sailing with his mother and she was thinking she might die. The low was too fast, though. No one escaped. (This may or may not be accurate, but sounds good for the drama of the story.)

As the wind rose, I reefed down and continued on like that for a couple of days. It was brutal though, no pleasure in it. We were being pummeled tirelessly. As I watched the barometer drop and drop the fear of an out of season typhoon (hurricane) haunted me. After several days of gale force winds, the weather didn’t want to break. To the contrary, it seemed to still be intensifying.

I dropped the jib and hove-to. I was tired. It is exhaustion that is most dangerous to a solo sailor at sea. This is when you slip, you get injured, you lose your balance, or you make a fatal mistake and go over the side. I walked a narrow line. Being tired, conditions being what they were, a rogue sea surprised me once as a worked a lashing on the mainsail. Will and an old climber’s finger-strength held me one handed to that lashing as the boat lurched far to port. I was furious at myself for such lack of awareness. A fall there would have been costly. Control was starting to unravel at the edges. It was time to heave-to and get inside.

It was then that I dropped the jib into the water.

It being reefed, it scooped water like a bucket. It bowed the forestay under the weight. I fought it back aboard and as a lashed her down I found the rip along the luff. This hurt me deep. It was my fault. My jib, torn! This is what drives the boat. Sailing is all about sails. I let her down.

If I hadn’t been tired I might have brought the sail inside. As it was, I lashed it on the foredeck as usual. But these weren’t usual conditions. The seas were breaking strongest there now. Being hove-to the boat was now pointed to windward, into the swell. It didn’t take long for the lashings to sag and the seas to pull the sail out of her containment. And worse, the battering she took caused a lashing to chafe through the sail in two small places. Carnage. The jib would ride out the storm there though, without other mishap.

It was sometime just after heaving to, after being in the weather for three to four days that I heard a good sloshing in the bow. I was trying to sleep and thought, “Well geez, we are taking a bit of water in the hawse hole after all. I can bloody well hear it.” As I crawled forward to have a look, I looked down into a cubby below the V-berth and damn if it wasn’t half-full of water. Now this was a new miracle aboard ARABY. I’ve taken on water before. I’ve had my share of leaks and drips. The chain locker has given me no shortage of pains—but water in the footwell in the V-berth? This was a thing unheard of. And it portended bad things.

Essentially, if there is that much water this far aft, then the chain locker has been flooding for some time. The water got high enough in there to spill out and into the forward stowage in the V-berth. It then further filled until it started to flood down and down and down. I should mention that my little Honda generator lives in that footwell. It was half underwater and is currently in a salt-water coma. (I have since revived it. Hurray. It’s Alive.)

What a disaster! I had sworn an oath to myself that I would never let the chain locker flood again. And I just painted the whole of the interior. Now “water, water everywhere. . .” all over again. My poor genny. Power tools, ect. Soaked.

It was time for the bucket brigade. I was amazed at the waterfall occasionally spitting down the anchor chain. So improbable.

Bucket after bucket, I worked slowly aft. Strangely, I actually enjoyed the brigade this time. (This is my second experience with a bucket brigade underway.) It was a job; I was working to keep ARABY afloat (no, not really, but from flooding); it was doing what had to be done and I liked it. Every few hours during the worst of it I’d go and fetch a bucket or two.

As the weather reached its climax I wondered whether my try’sle would hold. The rational side of me said to drop all sail and lie to a sea anchor. But honestly, I couldn’t be bothered. I was getting more tired. But also, aside from the imtimidation of the screeching wind and breaking seas, I knew it couldn’t be that bad. I knew, deep down I knew the try’sle could handle much more. But, God, it seemed impossible.

I don’t know how hard it blew. I wouldn’t go out there at the peak. Rain came. It was like being in a sand storm. It was impossible to see. But I believe I could have stood up if I needed to. I wasn’t forced to crawl. Times like these you put your faith in the boat and let her tend for herself. I’d estimate it was 45-55 knots; the strongest I’ve seen. It can get much worse and one day I’m sure it will.

We were hove-to safely. The seas weren’t big enough to roll the boat, but they did their best. I hunkered down. I wasn’t as vigilant as I should have been. Perhaps I was safer staying in my bunk. But chafe is evil and things weren’t stowed for weather of this caliber. For precaution, because I am engineless, I now keep the dinghy half inflated on the foredeck, available for quick use. But she is a liability there. Frankly, it is a miracle she didn’t get washed away. I had written her off in my heart. But she made it; she hung tight, though a piece of her floorboard was jarred loose and was lost to the sea.

This passage was determined not to end until the anchor was dropped and ARABY swung to. Even with the passing of the low, the winds shifted north instead of south. I was perhaps nine, ten days out from NZ. We had made good way, considering I hove-to for three days. The one lone perk had been that, while we were hove-to, our drift was due north—dead on course.

Now, with a nor-easter, we had to beat to weather. The seas were still steep. This was a miserable time. It was nice to see the sky clearing and it was nice to make way. There was a lull for a day with some fair sailing, but it was mostly drudgery.

And there is an ironic twist. I have had many windvane troubles and this passage was no exception. All the failures came to a climax at about seventy miles out. I was on the foredeck, of course, and ARABY starts heading up into the wind. I, of course, got drenched, and for the ‘nth time. I cursed at the vane and trimmed it a bit—nothing. I trimmed a bit more—nothing. Huh. . . So I went to have a closer look—nothing.

I mean to say there was nothing there. The servo-paddle, the part in the water that drives the windvane, had fallen off, well. . . broken off would be the better description. It was dragging by its trip line five feet behind the boat.

I had to chuckle to myself: I had tried to trim the vane twice. . . twice, and it wasn’t even steering the boat. The boat was steering itself naturally—albeit, a bit high, but not bad really, with no windvane at all. And herein lies the irony: uncomfortable though the course may be, it is a course the boat will steer naturally _without_ the windvane, which was now on the DL list. So, for a bit longer, I don’t have to man the helm.

A crucial weld had snapped, a weld that had snapped on my way to NZ. I had it repaired and improved there. Ah, but to no avail. I would have to hand steer us in, eventually.

As the sun came up on the twelfth and last morning, Fiji could be seen hunkering in the mist twenty miles ahead. It was a rough sea, a wet sea, as uncomfortable as any sailing I’ve done, heeling to 40 degrees. On making the outer reef I fell off and ran downwind until I could spot the Malolo Pass. I would lash the helm and then climb up the ratlines (rope ladder in the rigging) to get a view of the breakers and look for the gap that would be the pass. Then I’d scurry down as fast as I could before boat jibed or rounded up.

Eventually I saw the break. A great, huge mouth in the whitewater. It was big and clear. A wonderful sight. My heart was in my throat. I took a deep breath and turned to windward, sheeting in hard. The course would be tight—I could just carry the necessary course to make it through the pass.

As I entered, the seas all of a sudden turned to glass, the swell vanished. The wind was still stout, but the state of the tide was such as to completely dampen any windwaves. It was an awesome thing. We were rippin’ a good six knots through the pass, keeping the bead-line course straight through and into the placid waters of Fiji. And then, like that, I was clear; I was safe; I was in.

Of course, the wind followed me at each turn—I had head winds all the way. Well. . . not all the way. Five miles out from Lautoka, five in the afternoon—I was becalmed. Of all things. . . no wind! Ha. What a joke! After the trip I had had, becalmed, with one hour to go, after nearly two weeks of toil.

I left the helm. I couldn’t be bothered; what did it matter? I thought about dropping anchor, but why? I threw a line overboard and jumped in. Water has never, ever felt so refreshing; sublime is the word. I had already dropped the dinghy in the water. I crawled in the dinghy and scrubbed myself a bit and then went for the outboard.

I plopped the outboard on and was amazed when she actually did crank right up. Something survived! We sidetied and off we went. I was not to be denied, not an hour out, not a chance. I was thirsty for the end and I new it was just around one more island.

After about forty-five minutes a light northerly sprung up, just enough. I killed the engine. The sun was falling. All was calm and quiet. This moment is what sailing is all about. No motor, I sailed softly into the harbor of Lautoka under the red sky and grey evening light. Not a sound.

At first I didn’t recognize any boats. There is nothing like looking at a friend after a long passage, the camaraderie, the shared experience, the validation. It didn’t look like it was to be—I didn’t recognize a boat. But then, from behind another vessel, I thought I saw MONKEY’S BUSINESS. If there was anyone I would want to see right then. . . anyone it would be them. And there they were. There were only a few boats in the wide anchorage. I slowly tucked in behind them. I noticed they weren’t aboard.

At the same time I saw a dinghy I recognized heading my way. There they came, Laurel and Jason—and they didn’t even see me! I dropped sail; I eased in a little farther.

I hear, “Hey, is that. . . ? No. . . it’s Jonah? Oh my god! Oh my god, it is!” Laurel’s chipper voice. They were along side as I dropped the hook. I lost all track of how much chain I was letting out. It would be enough, more than enough. I let out a sincere sigh and said, “/Man/ am I glad to see you guys.”

And I meant it, deeply.

I should have known

Of course, now I find out that She-Ra has been out camping for the last few weeks and I got all freaked out for nothing.  Of course.  Go figure!

Ah, me again, at last

Me Again

I may have overlooked something fundamental. My head is coming out of the fog a bit. I am feeling like myself again. Perhaps I should share a story.

A few months ago I received an email from a girl I've never met. She had found Brain V's website and through his, found mine. She thought it was pretty cool and that I was perhaps pretty cool and she asked if there was any chance I would take her sailing.

She had told me that she lived in Wales and that she was a climber. The fact she was a climber, I told her, was enough to be considered for crew. So we started writing back and forth. She was so jubilant and positive and fun. She was very open and shared fears and personal issues after a short time talking. I was really enjoying the dialogue. She was also the first person I've ever met on the internet. I had, and still have no idea what she looks like. It really didn't matter. She was intriguing.

We got on well. We got closer and closer. She was serious about coming and eventually I told her I wanted her to come out. It was a matter of timing. I knew I already had plans to meet Anne in Fiji, so it would have to be sometime after that.

But just before I left NZ I found out Anne's stay would be short, so I told-let's call her She-Ra-to come on to Fiji as soon as she could.

The next day I left for Fiji. That must have been around the 28^{th or so, nearly a month ago now. And I've never heard back from her. Gone. Or silent. I have no idea why. I am completely confused. None of it makes good sense; there are so many possibilities, none good. It feels like it was a practical joke, but it just wouldn't make much sense. And I think I am a little better critical reader than all that.}

So what then???

This was my point: Perhaps what all this points toward is that my fate lies alone. I've always felt that way. Obi-Wan was always and is my hero. Perhaps I have to let go of my zeal for women and get down to the business of living. I waste so much energy in the pursuit of love, so much thought and dream.

I wrote She-Ra an email today saying that if nothing else she must give me a Yes or a No because, "I must have crew." And now I realize, No, this isn't so at all. That isn't the way of it. I haven't had crew; that isn't my way. All I must do is continue on. This is my mode. I've been happy. I've done well. Keep on.

Perhaps I've been nervous about giving up my freedom and solitude for good reason. Perhaps it would be a mistake.

What I want to say is, Okay, I give up the chase. I accept Solitude. I accept my Fate. Bring forth what comes. But I fear that as soon as I do I'll hear She-Ra yelling, Wait, wait, I'm here; I'm coming. And then I'll be a hypocrite. . . . once again. And not for the last time.

I am not ready to fully accept the hermits life. I have so many dreams that will be damned difficult to accomplish alone. I may well attempt them, but then I fear my life may be a short one. I don't know if I have the talent. One cannot live long on luck. I gamble well, but sometimes you can't afford to lose. Yet I refuse to stand down. Come what may.

I wrote this long and beautiful email to She-Ra delineating all the dreams I had and how we could share them. It was an epic email, packaged in a big joke, but it was heavy none the less. We had a fair context for it though, I thought. But, again, I've never heard from her since.

So I must rewrite it once again. Change the verbs from plural to singular. Alas.

The hardest part for me may be losing the anticipation of love. This is what really keeps me going. I seem to be perpetually let down in the end, but the journey there has always been such a joy and a bolster. Feeling loved through the written word does so much for a lonely man's heart. I can't begin to over-emphasis it.

 

I am not accepting my fate as I fear it. Not yet. But I am close, very close. But there is no need. I can take one day at a time. But I must watch where I place my energy, my hopes and my dreams. I can't control the hearts of women. Would I be a fool to depend on them for my happiness?? Perhaps. Should I lock them out?? No. But I should spend my thought on the future that I can command. I shape my own actions, I sculpt my own dreams. I have tried to find someone to share them with, but I can't find someone by looking.

She is either there or she isn't. So be it. Maybe tomorrow.

I wish I could truly believe I was better off alone. That would be something. But I'd have to have tried and failed. I can't even fail. I can't get that far!

 

not me

Not me.

 

I have lost something, something important.  I think it has been slowly seeping away as the years alone have accumulated with age.   I am an egotist.  I understand myself and very well.  After all what else do I have?   But in the time I've spend in my mind and in self-reflection I've been unconsciously been feeding a fog, a haze of understanding between myself and others.

 

You don't believe me.  Oh no jonah, you're as nice as can be, you say.   I'm nice because I want to be, because it's what I want, not necessarily what you want.  And I think I know what you want, what you need.   But I am learning that I am more wrong than I think. 

 

Maybe I don't understand people anymore.  Perhaps I have the gist of human emotion, more the more delicate part of—particularly—female needs, insecurities, reactions, ect. is still so far beyond me.   Wait!  That really isn't it.  I'm circling in on the point.

 

I have an infatuation with openness and honesty.  I have come to the conclusion that I can say anything in the world that I feel, anything, because it is true to me.   If it is true than I can lay it out there and see how my friend reacts to it.  I am not in the wrong because I'm only being honest and, even better, I'm not keeping any secrets.

 

But, every now and again I'll say something that is bound to cause trouble.  It is either misunderstood, inappropriate, indelicate, not a full or fair survey of my heart or mind—or all of the above.   I've said some ghastly things that I'm so ashamed of.  Not that what I said wasn't true, but I was thinking so much of myself, of my feelings, my needs, my goals, my curiosities, that I overlooked the needs of my friends, the sensitivities to their lives and feelings.   In short I was blinded by my own urge to speak, to share, to understand more of the relationship.

 

I think I am a great fool.  I can't say I know anyone else who is brash enough to say some of the things I've said over the years.   But the problem is that I am not sure.  I think what I am saying is so, but I'm not sure.  Am I being stubborn or am I being resilient in my reluctatnce to change to a more reserved person?   Are the misunderstanding I've experienced just a part of relationships, just a part of communication, sometimes it goes awry?

 

I have to ask myself what I gain from full disclosure.  I think I get a lot.   I carry no secrets.  People have full access to my heart and mind.

 

Okay, but what about timing?  This may be it.  I think I am compulsive.  Maybe it isn't what I say, but when I say it.  Ah.  Okay, I like this better.   If I were to let things take their natural course, then those things that I say that tend to backfire might come to light in good time.  What is required is more patience.

 

This feels right.  I know I am compulsive, and that isn't a quality.   I must learn to be more reserved.  It is hard for me but it seems I owe it to myself and my friends.

 

[I realize most of you reading this have very little clue what I am talking about.  Well, at least I hope you don't.  I won't explain.  I don't think I do it often, but I only really know if the person tells me or if I can noticeably sense it in their demeanor and ask them about it.   I can only think of maybe five times, though I'm sure I've just erased a few.]

 

 

 

So maybe I've not so much lost something but never had it: patience.  I have been working on it in other ways, but not within the context of my friendships.   I know it is a weakness but I didn't understand the breadth of which it affects my life.

 

I love you my friends I want nothing more than to be a good friend to you all.   I want to be the best friend I can be.  I had a bad miscommunication with someone recently.  I said something, it got taken the wrong way.   It took a couple of days to sort it out.  It was a bit traumatizing.  She was really mad at me and I had no idea as to why.   Really mad. 

 

We worked it out in the end and I was so shocked that it was something I had said that had incited the whole thing.   Ah…..I was crushed.  I explained myself and she apologized for misunderstanding me so badly, but, in the end, I didn't have to say what I did, I knew better, and it caused a lot of misunderstanding.  

It is more complicated by things I can't go into.  But I meant well.

 

I don't want to do it anymore. 

 

 

 

 

a little of Fiji

Been cruising around Fiji a bit, haven't even touched the surface.  My friend Anne came in from Fiji for about a week before heading back to the States--she's been living in Kiribati, some atolls, very remote, far to the north.
It is great to catch up with an old friend and wonderful also to have an old friend come aboard and go sailing for a bit.  We didn't go far, Musket Cove, but we saw clear water again, did some good hill climbs, runs, baked pizza and banana bread, watched the sun set and hoped for the mysterious "green flash".  She's leaving too soon.  She is wonderful.

But this is life.  People can't stick around forever.  I have been so fortunate.  Still, I have so much work to do after the passage here.  It was rather devastating.  Everything got destroyed it seems.  Much work now for awhile.  Hopefully until I can find some more crew.   There are many reefs around here--I would love to have an extra set of eyes.  And, as many of you know, mine don't count for much.  Anne turned out to be a fair sailor and now I am spoiled.
And, of course, my windvane is %^$&$ so I don't even currently have a self-steering.  (This will soon be remedied.)

Fiji is great.  I think of it as a Little India.  At least the main island.  I'm sure the outer islands are different.  Everyone is friendly; the land is beautiful; the weather is fair--there isn't much to complain about.

Hopefully soon I will get some emails written and sent and write up a little story of the trip and get my life sorted out a bit.  Sorry for being somewhat out of touch.